


Classified Information

by fennecfawkes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Movie Night, Banter, Blackmail, Free Advertising for Baby Bo's Cantina, M/M, Other Secondary Ships - Freeform, Phil Coulson is Alive and Well and Living in Park Slope, Pictures, Pining, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Folder 208120 11919—or, in Phil Coulson’s simple numbering system, THAT ASS—remains one of the man’s many secrets, and soon becomes one of his most treasured.</p><p>Until, that is, Natasha Romanov ruins everything.</p><p>Not my characters. Come on, guys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It started simply.

There was a set of mission photos Fury asked him to scan over, see if there was anything there worth releasing to the press. “We want the public to continue loving the Avengers, and if they’re lusting after them, that’s as good as,” in Fury’s words, so Phil flips through the pictures. There’s one of Natasha and Steve that he knows the _Post_ will love, and another he’ll send to the art director of _Wired_ for whenever they’re bored enough to run a new profile on Stark. They’re already a photogenic group, he thinks, and this battle served them well—minimal blood, no alien substances to speak of, so they’re simply flexing their muscles and kicking ass. Then Phil gets to a series of photos Clint readying a shot and letting it fly, and his mouth gets a little bit drier, his face a little bit redder, his pulse a little bit quicker.

Because Clint doesn’t just look good. Clint looks ... _amazing_.

He pushes aside the rest of the stack and stares, because in here he’s allowed; in here, he’s not overstepping his boundaries as liaison. It’s just a man looking at a photo of another man and wanting—no, not just wanting, admiring. From a purely tactical standpoint, Clint’s stance and positioning (out of the enemy’s line of sight but still maintaining full visibility) are perfect. But it’s the arms and the back and the precise amount of tension in Clint’s expression that are truly arresting. The press isn’t getting this photo. The press doesn’t deserve it.

Phil swivels his chair around to the cabinet with the drawer full of spare office supplies. He pulls out a single file folder and labels it, nearly without thinking, 208120 11919. Phil slides the photo carefully into the folder before opening the cabinet back up and strategically covering it with envelopes and notepads and a stray stapler.

Folder 208120 11919—or, in Phil Coulson’s simple numbering system, THAT ASS—remains one of the man’s many secrets, and soon becomes one of his most treasured.

Until, that is, Natasha Romanov ruins everything.

She’s in his office weeks later, handing off a mission report, when she says, offhand, “I know your secret.”

“Which one?” he asks blandly, putting her report on top of Steve’s, which is on top of Bruce’s, which is on top of Clint’s. Stark’s always last and Clint’s always first. He picks up a pen and promptly breaks it in half when she says, “The folder.”

Phil looks down at his right hand, now dotted with black ink. He can’t seem to make himself look at Natasha. “You know about the folder?”

She nods. “And so will he. And Stark. And everyone else if you don’t say something to him.”

Phil doesn’t have to clarify who they’re talking about. “Can you give me some time?”

“36 hours,” she says. “When movie night’s starting. It’s your pick this week, if I remember correctly.”

Phil runs his ink-free hand over his forehead. Movie night, Steve’s all-too-earnest idea, had begun shortly after Phil returned to the land of the living, and though he’d resisted the idea initially, the lure of beer, popcorn, a couch, and Clint Barton in partial darkness was simply too strong. He was, after all, the official SHIELD liaison to the Avengers; surely, attending their team-building events was part of the job description. And so he attended, and he’ll continue to, even if he does talk to Clint—and he know he has to—and ruins the friendship he’s worked so hard to forge for six years and counting.

Well, six years minus a week and a half of death. But still. It’s been an impressive run.

“36 hours,” he repeats. “That’s acceptable. That will be all, Widow.”

Natasha smirks, and it’s every bit as annoying as Stark’s, and when did they start spending enough time together that she’s gotten so good at it? And, moreover, what the hell is he supposed to say to Clint?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a burrito, and some beer, and an unfortunate interruption.

**SIX HOURS LATER ******

********

The smell emanating from the foil-wrapped something that lands on Phil’s desk hours later is heavenly. The sight of Clint Barton in a faded black SHIELD t-shirt—tight, as is Clint’s tendency—and not-so-artfully torn jeans, leaning against the doorframe and smiling, is somewhere beyond that.

“It’s 8,” says Clint. “That’s past your curfew, according to Stark.”

“I don’t live in the Tower, I just have a floor there,” Phil says. “I’m sleeping in my own bed tonight. But you can thank Stark for caring enough to send a messenger.”

Clint shakes his head. “I wasn’t sent. I got you dinner of my own accord. And I even got rid of the rice and beans, because I know you only care about the burrito. That kind of intel only comes from years of careful observation.”

Phil smiles, which he’ll do for Clint, because Clint seems to appreciate it, and Clint warrants it, and Phil is fucked as he ever was.

Thank you,” he says with sincerity. “I think I have some beer in the fridge if you want one.”

“Gladly, sir,” says Clint, and Phil reaches into the mini fridge under his desk and grabs one for each of them. Barton opens his on the desk, presumably because he can; Phil rolls his eyes and does it the old-fashioned way—with the multi-tool he keeps in one of his suit jacket’s hidden pockets. Clint sits on the couch, and Phil can tell he’s consciously keeping his feet off it, and he wishes for one second that Clint wasn’t considerate, because that just makes this whole thing all the more difficult.

“Sitwell makes a poor you,” Clint says, not seeming to mind that Phil is all but destroying his burrito. “Why weren’t you able to come out with us today?”

“Fury believes I should opt out every few missions to preserve my strength,” says Phil. “Today, I decided to listen, because Tango woke me up in the middle of the night, and I’m not particularly well-rested. I never knew how disruptive cats were.” His SHIELD-appointed therapist had recommended an animal companion as part of his recovery from his brief foray into death, so Phil had conceded and adopted a pair of kittens from Bideawee, a local shelter.

“You did name them after the characters in a below average buddy cop comedy,” Clint points out. “Tango could just be the more assertive one, taking out their collective aggression on you.”

“I suppose that’s fair.” Phil can’t hold himself back from moaning as he takes a bite of his burrito. He’s not quite absorbed enough that he misses the way Clint’s eyes widen slightly, and he tries not to think too much about that—although, considering Natasha’s admonition, maybe he should.

“How’d you find this place, Barton?” he asks. “It’s delicious every time. And I’ve never had the same thing twice.”

Clint shrugs. “It’s between the movie theater and Stark’s. Good Mexican is hard to find in Manhattan, so I figured I’d give it a shot. Turned out pretty well for me, didn’t it?”

“For me, too,” Phil says, nodding and trying not to consume what remains of his burrito in a single bite. “Have you eaten?”

Clint snorts. “Hours ago, sir. It’s 8, remember? Stark always wants us to eat together at 6:30. Well, he says it’s Steve’s idea, but I know it’s all him.”

“How’s everyone else doing?”

“Not too differently from how they were when you last stayed over,” says Clint. “That was Saturday, right?”

“Into Sunday. I never actually saw Bruce, but everyone else seemed well enough. Morale up, or whatever else it is I’m supposed to keep an eye on.”

“Speaking of Bruce...” Clint hesitates.

“What is it, Barton?”

“I think he ... I think he wants Nat,” says Clint, face reddening slightly. “Actually, I know he does. On account of I saw them together.”

“You saw them together, or you saw them together?”

“Yeah, that one. And I was just wondering—frat regs. I know they’re a thing between levels, like, a specialist has to file forms if they’re interested in a subordinate—” Phil tries not to dwell on the idea of Clint researching this. “But when they’re on the same team, is that OK?”

“Well, technically, there’s no rule against it,” says Phil. “Especially since the Avengers Initiative is a unique one. Has Natasha talked to you about it?”

“She knows I know, but we’ve never really talked about anything like that,” Clint says. “At least, not about her. She’s listened to me bitch before, sure, but she kind of keeps to herself.”

“It might actually be better for the team,” says Phil. “Gives them that extra measure of loyalty to each other, and they’ll be trying to compensate for paying too much attention to their significant other by protecting the rest of you.”

“You understand people way too well, sir.”

Phil half smiles. “That’s what I’m paid for.”

He looks at Clint then, Clint so relaxed on his couch, not a bit of tension to his frame, and he wonders if it’s him Clint’s bitched about to Natasha, if Clint would ever even think of bitching about him to Natasha. He’s jealous of whoever it is that’s caused Clint consternation, and he wishes. He pines the way he always has. And Clint’s looking at him, and Clint says his first name, and Phil thinks that maybe it’s time to do something, and then “Back on the Chain Gang” is blaring and the moment is dead and gone. Clint answers the phone, says a few words, grimaces, and hangs up.

“So, you know how sometimes Stark gets needy when he’s being ignored, and sometimes Bruce has a bad day, and the combination of the two of them sends everything to shit?”

“Not really, no. Enlighten me.”

Clint heaves a sigh. “So, Bruce has been in a bad mood since his ex-girlfriend reaffirmed that she is, indeed, his ex, and he’s been hiding away in his lab, working on the anti-Hulk serum that SHIELD’s bankrolling. Most of us know to leave him alone, but Stark... Well, he really wanted someone to be properly impressed by the new repulsors he’s testing out. So he took them down to the lab and broke a few vials Nat tells me were important, and Bruce... Yeah, I think you already know.”

“How often does this kind of thing happen?”

“It’s really rare.” Clint stands. “Thor and Steve are on a double date—and under normal circumstances, I’d stay and laugh with you about that for a few minutes—and Tony’s hiding in his lab, so it’s just Nat and me on cleanup duty.”

“And Bruce?”

“Back to normal,” says Clint. “But cooling off on his floor.”

“If you need my help—”

“We’ll be fine. You should go home.”

“Not before I pay you back for the burrito.” Phil reaches for his wallet, and Clint smiles and shakes his head.

“My treat. Night. Go home.”

“I owe you.” And that’s not all Phil owes him, and he knows that, really. But he still has—he checks his watch—30 hours. He’ll get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint gets Phil's burrito at Baby Bo's Cantina in Kips Bay. It's on 2nd between 34th and 35th if you're in Manhattan and can't find decent Mexican food (a likely scenario--Clint's right, it's scarce here). Bideawee is the most highly regarded animal adoption center in Manhattan. If you've read this far, you now deserve to know that Phil adopted unrelated kittens, a grey tabby (Tango) and a tortie (Cash). Tango is a polydactyl. The more you know!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Mediterranean cuisine, discussions of dating, and a really good costume idea.

**16 HOURS AFTER THAT ******

Phil asks Clint to have lunch with him the next day. What he doesn’t count on is Steve and Tony inviting themselves along, thus eliminating Phil’s opportunity to say something to Clint. At least Clint looks good, grey t-shirt improbably tighter than yesterday’s, ripped jeans gone in favor of relatively new ones, and he’s rolling his eyes while Steve and Tony argue about whether or not Steve is dating Darcy.

“It was one date,” Steve says, attention diverted entirely from the falafel he should be eating. “Traditionally, to be a couple, you have to have gone on at least a few dates, right?”

“When you say ‘one date,’ you mean in addition to last night’s double date,” says Tony, managing to speak through a mouthful of shwarma. “So that’s two. If you’re not her boyfriend, you’re well on your way.”

“I’m still not even sure I feel that way about her.”

“You should probably decide that soon,” Clint says. “Before she starts picking out china patterns.”

“China patterns?” Steve’s brow furrows in confusion.

Clint waves his hand dismissively. “It’s just—it’s like, she’s looking for stuff you’d use when you got married.”

“Oh, that’s certainly not happening,” says Steve. “She doesn’t think it’s happening, does she?”

“I was exaggerating slightly,” Clint says. “Just ... If you’re not sure, you should let her know you’re not sure. No matter how you feel, you should probably say something. People should be honest about their feelings.”

“Yeah, Barton? How’s your romantic life going?” asks Tony, smirking.

“Classified,” says Clint. “And I haven’t seen you bring anyone around to meet the folks in a while, either.”

Tony shrugs, and Phil wonders if there’s anything behind it; Pepper broke things off with Tony shortly after he underwent Extremis, and though neither ever said why, Phil suspects it had something to do with the hazards of dating someone who willingly risked life and limb on a professional level. “I don’t date because it gives me more time to make fun of Cap for dating. I imagine Coulson’s feeling a bit left out of this discussion, though. How about you, Agent? Any special someone in your life right now?”

Phil forces a chuckle and resolutely doesn’t look at Clint. “Stark, if Barton’s relationship status is classified, then mine is somewhere far beyond that.”

“Fair. So, it’s back to making fun of Steve now, right?”

Steve sighs and runs his hands through his hair. When he does that—calls attention to one of his more flawless features—Phil is reminded that he’s eating lunch or fighting evil or going over paperwork with his childhood hero, and he’s gotten past the surreal feeling of it, but just barely. It’s a bit odd, really, that he’s never had any kind of interest in Steve, who’s distractingly good-looking, ridiculously kindhearted, and gifted with more humor than most people realize. But then, any time he’s spent with Steve, Clint hasn’t been far away, and since the day he finally tracked Clint down and recruited him in a dingy motel in Reykjavik, that’s where his attention’s been.

“What do you do on a double date with Thor, anyway?” Clint asks. “I just want to visualize this.”

“We went to a restaurant that would’ve been tacky in the forties and spent too much money on food Bruce could’ve made us, plus desserts he probably couldn’t have, but left you feeling awful.” He pauses. “Well. Jane and Darcy felt awful. Thor finished both of theirs, and I was fine, because, you know, serum. Anyway, after the restaurant, we went to FAO Schwarz so the girls could giggle over our action figures and play on the giant piano, and Thor could attempt to mount a giant stuffed horse.”

“It doesn’t sound amazing till you get to the part with the stuffed horse,” says Tony. “That’s the part I wish I could’ve been there for. Does Thor plan to return to his noble stuffed steed?”

“If he does, I’ll be sure to let you know, Tony,” Steve says. “Then we went back to the Tower so Darcy could watch some television competition show, and she kissed me and tried to get me to do more than that, but I said I was tired.” He pauses. “I don’t get tired. I’m not a normal person, am I?”

“No,” says Tony. “Decidedly, you are not.” He looks at his phone. “We’re scheduled to spar with Natasha and Bruce in half an hour. Barton, are you in?”

“Actually, I left my copy of _Clear and Present Danger_ in your office yesterday,” says Clint, looking at Phil. “I can walk back with you and get it, right?”

“I can bring it over tomorrow night if you don’t mind waiting.”

“I was about to get to my favorite part, actually.” Clint sounds slightly embarrassed, and Phil’s so endeared to him that he disgusts himself.

Phil nods. “Fair enough. I hope Banner’s not holding yesterday against you, Stark.” Tony groans, and Steve pats him on the back. The two of them say a quick goodbye and head for the 6.

“Are you going to the gala Saturday?” Clint asks Phil as they walk the block back to HQ.

“Gala ... Saturday ... Cancer research costume party?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, I was told by Fury that missing three in a row would not do me any favors when it comes to my performance evaluation.”

Clint snickers. “You have performance evaluations?”

“Haven’t in ten years,” says Phil. “But he seemed unhappy, so I conceded. Haven’t figured out a costume yet, though.”

“You’re not the only one,” Clint says. “I’m just going to find the Robin Hood costume I’ve worn every Halloween since, like, ever—” Phil knows the one, and he may or may not have rustled up an old photo of it for Folder 208120 11919. “But I know Nat has no idea what to wear. We’d all joked about going as each other, but then that just led to a fight about who had to be Nat and Bruce. Too bad, really. I would’ve made a great Cap.”

“I’m sure you would have,” says Phil, and he forces a sarcastic tone, but he means it. “So, Tom Clancy?”

“You know I love him. And he just died, so... Doing a reread of the classics.”

“I’ve never been into reading about military science when I’m not getting paid to do it. But I’m glad you enjoy him.”

“Yeah, Stark was surprised when I filled a couple bookshelves after moving in,” says Clint. “Guess I don’t really seem like the reading type.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Phil says. “Maybe I could be a book character for the gala.”

“I think you should be Bond,” says Clint, and Phil laughs. “I’m serious! You get a watch and attach a knife to it or something, and you wear a tux, I bet you have, like, four of them, and you carry around a martini, and you’re golden. You’d be great, boss.”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” Phil says as they enter his office. “Your book’s on the couch.”

“Thanks.” Clint picks up the paperback and hesitates. “Phil? Can I call you that?”

“You’re off duty,” says Phil, smiling. “I suppose you can.”

“Phil, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” Clint’s pausing again when Maria Hill darkens Phil’s doorway.

“Coulson, we just received a report from Sitwell. He’s made contact with Falcon.” Maria looks from Phil to Clint and back again. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nothing, Agent,” Clint says quickly. “See you tomorrow night, Phil—Coulson.” And he darts away, and Phil heaves a sigh as he sits down at his desk.

“So I’m guessing now wasn’t the best time to tell you that,” Maria says as soon as Clint's out of earshot, sitting opposite Phil in one of his comfy-but-not-too-comfy armchairs.

“While I always appreciate hearing about potential additions to the Avengers roster, no, I can verify that your timing was less than optimal,” Phil says dryly. “Look, Romanov has dirt on me and told me she’ll spread it around if I don’t tell Barton that I’m interested in him by tomorrow night.”

“Shit,” says Maria, looking impressed. “What’s the dirt?”

“Please,” Phil says. “Anyway, we just got interrupted on the cusp of that conversation for the second time in as many days. I’m frustrated, I’m tired, and I don’t have a costume for this damn gala of Stark’s on Saturday.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Maria asks, sounding genuinely sympathetic.

“Yeah,” he says, “there is, actually. You can go shopping with me. I think I need a tux.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head canon, the New York SHIELD office is in the Financial District, where I haven't spent enough time to find a Mediterranean place. My go-to is Omar's in Midtown East, on 55th between Lex and 3rd. Their shwarma is mind-blowing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is leftover lamb stew, two deadlines, a conversation, and some kissing.

**30 MINUTES UNTIL PHIL'S DEADLINE**

****

“Glad I caught you on your own,” says Phil. “And this is delicious as always.” He’s arrived at the Tower early, hoping for this chance. Plus, it eats up a few more minutes before his deadline, which is fast approaching.

Bruce ducks his head. “Only the best for our favorite liaison.”

“You know,” Phil says, trying to keep his tone conversational. “If you wanted to ask me about fraternization regulations, now would be a great time.”

Bruce looks caught off-guard, which is rare, as he asks, “Did Natasha say something?”

Phil shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter how I know. I will tell you that I see no problem with the two of you pursuing a relationship. When you’re on the same clearance level as another agent, you’re in the clear. I do wonder, on a personal level, if it’s really healthy for you to move on when you’ve been spending so much time in your lab, dwelling on a very recent past relationship.”

“Permission to speak freely?”

“You know you don’t need to ask, Bruce.”

“I knew Betty—that was her name, is her name—was a bad idea,” says Bruce. “And that’s not really the source of the moping, connected as it may seem. It’s more ... well, I’m still figuring out my place on this team. I’m not of much use when I’m not a monster. And I’d like to think I’m not usually a monster.”

“I hope you know that’s not true,” Phil says. “You’re a terrific stabilizing force for a group of mostly unstable people, or, at least, a group of people who don’t have the best handle on life outside the battlefield. Don’t tell Stark, but you’re the smartest among us. And you have more heart than most people I know. We need you, doc. Don’t ever doubt that.”

Bruce smiles, and Phil returns the favor. That’s when Thor’s voice comes booming through the room, accompanied by Steve’s chuckle and Darcy and Jane’s chorus of giggles.

“Hello, boys,” says Darcy, stepping in front of Thor before he can shout a greeting at Son of Coul. “We were just talking about the time the Warriors Three got their hands on some illegal mead Loki used as a truth serum. Shame you couldn’t hear the story.”

“Maybe later, when we’re drunk ourselves,” says Bruce. “Although if we really are watching _Ghostbusters_ , I see no need to distract myself with alcohol.”

“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Phil says. “We’ve got a bit of time to kill first, though.”

“Call of Duty?” Steve suggests.

“I could’ve predicted that would be your favorite game,” says Darcy, elbowing Steve. He smiles down at her and slips his arm around her waist, and Phil considers the idea that maybe Steve’s getting used to the idea of a relationship with her. And good for him. Darcy’s clever and funny and a genuinely nice girl. Pretty, too, he supposes. Though that’s not really his area of expertise.

“Did someone say Call of Duty?” Clint practically bounds into the room, Natasha entering behind him, looking a bit bored. She catches Phil’s eye and mouths, “30 minutes.” He looks away and focuses on Clint, who’s inspecting what Phil’s wearing.

“What’s the occasion, Coulson?” Clint asks. “No suit?”

Phil shrugs. He’s in jeans and a Rangers t-shirt that’s all but disintegrated. “I stopped home and changed. Movie night is meant to be relaxing, not work.”

“Ah, but it becomes work when you have to settle domestic disputes,” says Tony as he walks into the room. “Such as the one I’m about to have with Bruce about giving away my leftover lamb stew.”

“Coulson needed dinner,” Bruce says. “And who can say no to those eyes?”

“What’s wrong with my eyes?” asks Phil.

“Nothing,” Clint says quickly. “Nothing’s wrong with your eyes.” Out of the corner of his eye, Phil can see Natasha, who’s playing Call of Duty with Steve, Jane, and Darcy, smirk. Phil takes Clint’s comment as his cue. He feels obligated, to some extent, since his deadline’s less than half an hour away, but mostly, it’s way past time to say something.

“Clint,” he says. “Would it be possible for me to borrow a book? I’m fresh out and I could use something new.”

“Sure,” Clint says, and they cross the room to the elevator, Natasha’s smirk wide as ever. Soon enough, they’re combing through Clint’s bookshelf, and Clint’s answering Phil’s questions about A Song of Ice and Fire.

“Generally, it’s a good series,” Clint says. “It took me forever to read the fourth and fifth book, but that’s just because the first three are so strong. I’d recommend trying the first and seeing if you’re overwhelmed by the number of characters, because he just keeps adding more and it gets a little confusing. It shouldn’t confuse you then, though. Have you seen the show?” Phil shakes his head. “Oh, we should watch it! I need to rewatch it anyway.”

Phil looks at Clint then, so excited at the prospect of spending time with him, even if all they’re doing is watching an HBO show. And that’s as good an in as any.

“Should we ask the others if they’d like to join in?” Phil asks. “You know, make it a team thing?”

“I was thinking it could be ... you know ... our thing,” says Clint. He looks nervous now, and Phil takes it as an invitation, a challenge, almost.

“Would you like us to have a thing, Clint?”

“Oh, God, more than anything else in the world,” Clint blurts out, like he’s been holding it in the entire conversation, or perhaps their entire relationship. “I mean, it’s good, friends, hanging out...”

Phil raises one eyebrow. “Friends, huh?”

“Or, you know.” Clint’s not looking at him, scuffing his feet along the ground, and it’s so cute that Phil has to look back up at Clint’s face. Which is, of course, better. Always better. “Maybe ... I don’t know, Phil, I feel like, lately, there’s maybe something else going on, and, shit, I’ve got this deadline set with Natasha, and I’m supposed to tell you how I feel by 8 or she tells everyone about my book—” Clint cuts himself off then, as though he’s said too much.

“You ... have a deadline with Natasha, too?”

“Yeah.” Clint attempts to maintain eye contact now. “I kind of, sort of keep a scrapbook of news clippings about you, or just anytime you’re in the background of a photo in the paper, and sometimes I make copies of mission briefs if you say something particularly nice about me.” He’s blushing. “It’s called Those Eyes.”

“Nothing wrong with them, then,” says Phil, stepping closer to Clint.

“Not even a little, sir.”

“Please keep calling me Phil.” And that’s when they kiss, and Phil feels an enormous sense of relief for a moment before he’s more or less swept away.

He’s thought about kissing Clint before. He’s thought about it countless times, maybe after a particularly difficult mission, when they’re both still in tac suits and bloodied and beaten up, maybe in his office, on the couch that’s become Clint’s, or maybe in Phil’s apartment, on the bed, leading to ... wherever that leads to. But this is so much better than he’d imagined, Clint kissing him like Phil’s the only thing he’s ever wanted, hard enough for teeth to click together, soft enough for tongues to tangle in a way that will likely drive Phil insane if it goes on for too long. Soon, Clint’s pulling away and tugging the collar of Phil’s t-shirt downward so he can kiss him lightly along his collarbone, and Phil lets out what he thinks is an embarrassing moan, but Clint takes as encouragement, and he continues, and Phil’s not sure how much more he can handle before he’s wrestling Clint into his bed.

“We...” Phil breaks away but leaves his arms around Clint’s waist, where they’ve somehow ended up without Phil’s permission. “If we keep going, we’ll miss the movie, and you know how great the first scene in _Ghostbusters_ is.”

“Is it as great as this?” Clint asks, his voice dropping down to a husky whisper, and Phil again gets the urge to push Clint across the room and into where he sleeps.

“Of course not,” Phil says, whispering back. “But I’ll let you hold my hand, and everyone will laugh, and you’ll look so adorably smug that I’ll kiss you in front of them, and they’ll all be incredibly jealous, because you kiss like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

“I guess I could go for that,” says Clint, grinning. “Can I say something first?”

“Go ahead.”

“This isn’t just a crush or a lust thing for me. I mean, it’s both of those. But I actually want something out of this. Like, want a relationship out of this. And I hope that’s where you’re coming from, too.”

“Of course it is,” Phil says. “Clint, have you ever known me to do things halfway?”

“You have a point,” says Clint, and then they’re kissing again. It’s deeper now, more urgent, and if Phil lets Clint push him into the bookshelf, well, that’s more Clint’s fault than Phil’s. Phil runs his hands over Clint’s chest and back and arms, relishing the touches he’s been wanting for years, and Clint’s doing the same to him, as though he’s got so much to offer—granted, he’s in pretty good shape for being his age, but the fact that someone as attractive as Clint thinks he’s worth touching, kissing, being with is still pretty flattering.

“We need to go,” he says, resting his forehead against Clint’s.

“Will you stay over tonight? Here, on my floor?” Clint asks. “We don’t have to do anything. I just ... I just want to know you’re here now.” And he’s so sincere, so hopeful that Phil can’t do anything but tell him yes, of course he’ll stay, and then he drags Clint toward the elevator so they can get out on the main floor and watch one of Phil’s favorite movies. Of course, everyone mocks them when they come down, but Natasha sends a curt nod their way, as if in congratulations, and they salute back.

Just as the movie’s starting, Phil leans over and whispers to Clint, “I have a folder. Of pictures of you. It’s called That Ass.” And Clint laughs, and he can’t stop, and Phil can’t help joining in.

“Want to share that joke with the rest of the class, boys?” Tony asks.

Clint shrugs. “Life. It’s funny.” And he squeezes Phil’s hand as the image on the screen turns to the New York Public Library’s main branch.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Thai food, video games, and discussion of PDA protocol.

**THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON ******

Phil wakes up with a heavy weight draped across his chest, and another across his legs. He’s wearing a shirt that’s decidedly not his own from Big Apple Circus, and the weight—which is Clint—has his Rangers shirt on backwards. Something wonderful tightens in Phil’s chest when he realizes that. He shifts slightly and Clint, always on high alert, blinks his eyes open sleepily.

“Is it still morning?” Clint asks.

“I hope so,” says Phil. “Otherwise, I’m going to be late.” He looks at the clock next to the bed. “Shit, it’s past noon. I need to get to the office.”

“No, you don’t,” Clint says, tightening his grip on Phil. “I got a text from Nat around 6 telling me to turn off your alarm. Apparently Hill told Fury you wouldn’t be in today, something to do with food poisoning. Hill figured that no matter how last night went, you’d want a day off.” Clint pauses. "Fury probably figured it out, but still, nice gesture."

“Hill’s a good friend sometimes,” says Phil, leaning over and kissing Clint on the cheek. “She helped me pick out the tux I’m wearing to the gala tomorrow night.”

“You took my advice, then?”

“Seemed like good advice.”

“It hardly ever is,” Clint says, grinning. “I can’t wait to see you in it.”

“There’s a picture of you dressed as Robin Hood in my folder,” says Phil. “Do you have any idea what you look like in that costume, Clint?”

“Apparently it’s pretty good.” Clint sighs. “If I were a younger man, I’d ask if you wanted to go for round three.”

“And if I were a younger man, I’d take you up on your offer. As is, though, I think we both need a shower. And I need to go to my floor and get a change of clothes.”

“You should just wear mine.” Clint smiles almost shyly. “I like seeing you in my shirt.” He earns himself a kiss for that one, and Phil makes a mental note to raid Clint's closet once in a while.

“When have you been to the Big Apple Circus, anyway?” asks Phil, extricating himself from Clint’s grip and pulling him toward the bathroom.

“It’s been going for 30 years, maybe more,” says Clint. “I try to go every couple years. I’ll take you next time.”

“OK. Now, take a shower. We both smell very strongly of sex, and I’m already going to get enough shit from Stark as is for having stayed over, and not in my own room. I’ll see you in fifteen.”

As promised, the two of them sit down and begin debating the merits of Chinese versus sushi when Tony walks into the room, welding goggles on his forehead.

“Well, what do you know? Agent Phil Coulson has an ‘I just got laid’ smile, and we all have the privilege of seeing it,” he muses. “And isn’t that Barton’s shirt?”

Phil simply rolls his eyes and says, “Ashiya has excellent volcano rolls.”

“Ashiya doesn’t deliver all the way out here,” says Clint. “And besides, I want curry puffs.”

“Now we’re bringing Thai into the mix?”

“You could just force Steve into making you grilled cheese,” Natasha suggests. She stands up from the couch and walks over to the counter. “That’s what Stark does.”

“And I would have it no other way,” says Tony, waving his sandwich around. “He uses three kinds of cheese, if you count Velveeta as cheese.”

“I do,” Clint says.

“I don’t,” says Phil.

“Oh, do we get to see your first argument as a couple?” Tony sounds thrilled. “I’m on Barton’s side! Natasha, you’re sophisticated, you fight for Phil!”

“I’m not involving myself in this,” says Natasha with an expert eye-roll. “Besides, I’m sure they already argued about who has to bottom.”

“We took turns,” Clint says proudly, and Phil groans as Tony chokes on a bite of grilled cheese and Natasha just sits back and folds her arms, looking satisfied.

“Can I rely on you to dole out too much information with regularity?” Phil asks Clint, who grins and nods and kisses him on the cheek.

“OK, that’s just adorable,” says Tony. “More of that, please. Less of the sex talk. Cap’s coming, and he has delicate sensibilities.”

“How did you know I was coming?” Steve asks. “And did you already have both your sandwiches? Because one of those wasn’t for you, Tony. It was for me.”

"Sorry, sweetheart, it's gone," says Tony, not sounding the least bit sorry. "And I have a sixth sense for you. And your extremely loud footsteps."

“We’re ordering Thai, Steve,” says Clint. “Should I put you down for peanut curry?”

“I’d be much obliged,” Steve says. “We’re not still talking about sex, are we?”

“No,” says Phil. “No, we are not. And Barton, we’re going to have to have a talk about PDA.”

“I don’t think it counts as PDA in the Tower. And I’m Barton again? I thought you liked saying my name, especially when—”

Natasha swats Clint on the arm. “Enough. And get that shit-eating grin off your face. It’s unflattering.”

“I bet he thinks it’s cute,” says Clint, poking Phil in the side. “Don’t you?”

“I’m opting not to answer that. Liaison privileges. Red curry for you?”

“Are you getting pad Thai?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, and you’re letting me eat some, and you can’t whine about it anymore, since we’re dating and swapping spit on the reg.”

“You’re every bit as insufferable as I hoped you would be,” Phil says, sighing and taking out his phone. He can’t help smiling as the rest of the group shuffles over to the couch and starts a game of Super Smash Brothers while he places the order, throwing in a side of curry puffs for good measure. After hanging up, Phil notices he’s received several texts over the course of the morning and early afternoon. Two are from Jasper and Maria respectively, saying some form of congratulations; the third is from Nick, saying simply: _I don’t need form 23A from you. I already know you’re good for it._ Then there are a couple pestering texts from his sister, who he really needs to call sometime, and the last is from Clint: _Did I mention I’m in love with you? I think I said it last night but you might not have heard me._ Phil’s smile widens. He writes back: _I think I heard it, but I don’t mind hearing it again. And I love you, too._ He watches as Clint, still mashing buttons with his right hand, reaches into his back pocket to retrieve his phone. He looks down at it, reads the text, and looks over his shoulder at Phil, smiling. Phil joins them in front of the TV, advising Steve on how to properly tear Tony—or, as he keeps referring to himself in the third person, Captain Falcon—apart and marveling at Clint’s ability to win matches one-handed while he uses the other hand to massage Phil’s neck.

“When are you having that PDA discussion?” Tony asks. “Because I know you’re stressed, Coulson, but seeing someone who isn’t me getting a neck massage—it’s a bit rough.”

“This, I’m not counting as PDA,” says Phil. “You can massage someone you’re not dating.”

“It’s just not as awesome,” Clint says. “Also, I win. Again.”

“Can we play Call of Duty instead?” Steve asks. “Or the James Bond one? At least I know what I’m doing there. They don’t have any guns in this game that aren’t lasers.”

“I have no opposition to laser guns,” says Clint.

“Nor do I,” Tony says. Steve shrugs and continues attempting to maneuver a small boy with wings around the screen.

“So, Agent Coulson,” says Steve a minute or two later, after Clint’s won another match and both Natasha and Tony are concentrating as hard as they can on defeating him, just once. “I suppose it’s my duty to discuss fraternization regulations with you now.”

“I got the all-clear from Fury this morning,” Phil says, removing his hand from Clint’s neck (because he's all about equity, and his hands were free for massaging anyway). Clint whimpers, and Phil adds, “Later, Clint.”

“When did you have time to file your paperwork?” Steve sounds impressed.

“I didn’t. Apparently, I’m exempt.”

“That doesn’t seem fair somehow,” says Natasha.

“I’m a very important person, Natasha,” Phil says. His phone rings, and he retrieves the Thai food. Clint and Steve immediately drop their controls, leaving Tony to protest and Natasha to roll her eyes and turn off the Wii in favor of an _America’s Next Top Model_ marathon. Once the food is unpacked and Phil’s done warning Tony to stay away from the curry puffs, they settle in together, and Phil thinks to himself, without sentimentality, that this is what life is supposed to be like. And maybe he should’ve said something to Clint—Clint, who’s leaning against him even as he mixes together rice and curry—much sooner than this, but the happiness he’s feeling now was worth the wait.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is unrepentant fluff.

**THE GALA ******

********

“I want you out of that suit so badly, sir,” Clint says to Phil under his breath as he smiles genially—for the cameras, Phil supposes—and passes Phil his whiskey sour.

“And I want to unlace that obscene scrap of fabric you call a shirt,” Phil mutters back, accepting the drink and clinking his glass against Clint’s gin  & tonic. “But we can’t always get what we want, can we?”

“Well, I did want to see what Nat looked like as the Hulk,” says Clint. “So that’s some consolation.” He gestures across the room at Natasha, who’s painted green, sporting purple cutoffs and an open Oxford over a barely-there purple top. Her costume is without question the most elaborate; many guests have chosen to wear masks and formalwear, while Bruce simply put on his lab coat, threw some goggles on his forehead, and called himself Dr. Horrible. At least Tony was trying; his Risky Business ensemble was fairly accurate, if immodest. And Steve, bless him, had complied with Darcy’s wishes and worn his forties costume while she dressed up as one of his backup dancers. It was cute, really. But Phil wouldn’t be telling Steve that.

“I wonder how she’s getting that paint off,” Phil says.

“I’m sure she and the good doctor will find a way,” says Clint, grinning. “I’m really glad you talked to him about the whole ‘You can totally bang Nat’ thing.”

“Those were my exact words, yes.” He and Clint have been doing a lot of talking in the past two days, not about anything in particular—just the kinds of conversations he’s always wanted to have with Clint, long and rambling and meaningless, punctuated by kissing and cuddling and occasional groping. Actually, come to think of it, the cuddling hadn’t been mere punctuation. That had been a constant. Clint was an affectionate person, always ready with a slap on the back or a side hug for his friends and colleagues. But Phil had never seen him in a relationship before, thank God, and this was a different level. If they weren’t curled around each other on the couch, Clint’s head or feet were in Phil’s lap. If they were at the dinner table or kitchen counter, Clint was playing footsie with his hand on Phil’s thigh. And if they were in bed—and Phil had spent more time in bed in the past 48-odd hours than perhaps ever before—then Clint was spooning up against Phil, in perfect position to kiss along Phil’s neck or interlace their fingers somewhere in the vicinity of Phil’s waist. Clint’s hands tended to wander around that point, not that Phil minded; his appetite for Clint was every bit as voracious as Clint’s for him, but it took him a little while longer to get ready for the next round. Clint didn’t mind, it seemed. Clint was eager to just lay together, talking about books and movies and missions and where they’d go for dinner next Wednesday, barring disaster. Phil had always considered himself a little bit in love with Clint Barton; now, he was falling hard and fast, and he couldn’t foresee ever wanting this to end.

“What are you smiling about?” Clint asks Phil, breaking him out of his reverie.

“You,” says Phil, reaching down and lacing his fingers through Clint’s. “How long I’ve waited for this. How glad I am that it happened. And how much I hope you’re as committed to it as I am.”

Clint squeezes, maybe a touch too hard, but Phil doesn’t say anything. “Of course I am, Phil,” he says with conviction. “Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to kiss you after a battle? How many times I’ve wanted to tell you I’m completely gone for you when we’re doing a mission briefing or having lunch together? I’m never letting you go, OK? Just ... know that, if you’re not sure of anything else. You have me now. You’re not losing me.”

Phil leans his forehead against Clint’s. “You’re better with words than you get credit for, Barton.”

“As long as you’re giving me credit, that’s fine by me.” Clint kisses him, quickly and softly, and Natasha materializes next to them, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Good to see you two are still getting along,” she says. “So, there actually is a file, and there actually is a book?”

Phil and Clint look at her, goggle-eyed.

“Wait. What?” Clint asks. Phil can’t think of anything to say, so he nods at Clint’s question.

“Fury was sick of the two of you dancing around each other, and he said I could have a week off if I got the two of you together,” says Natasha. “I figured blackmail’s always an effective method of getting what you want out of a situation, and you’re both so obvious with your secrets—”

“No one else in the world would say so, Natasha,” says Phil.

She waves her hand dismissively. “I get paid to do this. Anyway, after I said I knew Phil’s secret, he looked at his filing cabinet. What do you keep in a filing cabinet? Files.”

“And me?”

“Clint, dear, sweet Clint, you looked at the ottoman where you hide your romance novels and, apparently, some kind of Phil-based book.”

“So ... you duped us,” says Phil.

“I duped you well,” Natasha says, nodding. “And now, everyone’s happier for it. JARVIS informs me you’ve had him lock the doors and turn off the surveillance cameras no less than five times since Thursday evening.”

“That seems like it should be classified information,” says Clint.

“We have an arrangement,” Natasha says breezily. “Anyway, I do want to offer my congratulations to both of you. I didn’t know what I was going to do if neither of you met the deadline, and what do you know, you got in there, right under the wire.” She claps both Phil and Clint on the shoulders and walks away. Phil and Clint look at each other; Phil’s still slightly shell-shocked, but Clint’s about to burst out laughing, and he does so.

“She is, without a doubt, the best friend I’ve ever had,” he says. “Also the most devious, and the most frustrating. But the best for sure.”

“We should send her something in appreciation of her efforts,” says Phil. “Fruit basket, maybe? Oh, no, let’s get her a new set of throwing knives.”

Clint nods. “Beautiful Blades in Sutton Place,” he says. “They don’t ask questions. And I think I might belong to their customer loyalty program.”

“You mean you know you belong to their customer loyalty program.”

“Classified,” says Clint, grinning. “So, we’ve been here the customary two hours. Think Stark’ll notice if we slip out?”

“I’ll give you a five-minute head start.”

“I’ll leave the costume on.”

“See to it that you do.”

Clint kisses him on the cheek before walking across the room to the elevator, letting a few arrows fly on the way. They hit, predictably, Darcy, Bruce, and Tony, who all roll their eyes and hold up the arrows as though they’re souvenirs. Clint blows a kiss to Phil before leaving the room. Phil waits the customary four and a half minutes before following suit. Stark grabs his elbow on the way out.

“While I’m happy you’re happy, sir, two hours seems a little short,” says Tony. “Is the sex that good?”

“He’s 35 with the body of a 25-year-old marathon runner,” Phil says. “What do you think, Stark?”

“Fair point.” Tony pauses. “I really am, you know. Happy for you. Gives the rest of us hope that maybe we’ll find someone and take nearly a decade to say something about it, then end up in a state of utter bliss.”

“That means more to me than it really should,” says Phil. “Now, do I have your permission to leave your gala and do unspeakable things to my boyfriend?”

“Permission granted, Agent.” Tony salutes, and Phil leaves. When he arrives on Clint’s floor, Clint’s sprawled out on the couch, quiver thrown on the carpet, Oliver the Therapy Cat on Clint’s lap. Phil idly wonders how long it’ll take for Tango and Cash to live in the Tower, and how many months are left on his lease. Did he, without optimism, do a two-year renewal? He has the money to carry it through regardless. The train of thought should shock Phil, but it’s not entirely unexpected. He wants to be here. He always has. It feels like home, and there’s just one very important reason why that is.

“Stark give you shit on your way out?” Clint asks as Phil joins him on the couch. Clint leans against him, and Phil loops his arms around Clint’s waist, careful not to disturb Oliver.

“Of course. But he’s happy for us, whatever that’s worth.”

“More than it should be,” says Clint.

“That’s almost exactly what I said. Bed?”

“Bed,” Clint agrees. “After brushing our teeth and me sheepishly explaining to you that I’m actually pretty tired before you realize the sheepishness is a front and all I want to do is get on you.”

“Way to ruin the surprise.”

“Yeah, it was going to be a good one, too.” Phil stands, and Clint follows; Oliver trots along behind them to the bathroom, watching as they brush their teeth. He jumps on the edge of the bed when they’re both ensconced beneath covers, Phil carefully unlacing Clint’s tunic, Clint just as carefully slipping Phil’s tie over his head.

“I love you,” Clint says. “Just a reminder. I love your suits and your snarkiness and your absolute sincerity, and how good you are at dialing phones and ordering takeout while I’m sucking on your neck.”

“I love you, too,” says Phil. “I love your t-shirts, and your scars, and your mouth, and your mouthiness, and your knack for changing the channel while you’re getting what has to be the best blowjob of your life.”

“I think it was,” Clint says. “But I also think you can do better.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

“You’re on,” says Phil, and he’s lost to the ridiculous perfection of what this is yet again.


End file.
